She stood up and crossed one arm over her naked breasts and used the other hand to cup the wispy triangle of curls at the juncture of her thighs in a classic pose of feminine shame.
When Bryce looked up and saw her he was struck as still as a statue. Her tear-filled eyes were darting frantically around the room, searching for her scattered clothing. He had dragged on his boxers by now and urgently started hunting for her things, hating the trapped and desperate look in her eyes. He eventually found her blouse and handed it to her, but she didn't move. She looked almost catatonic and Bryce swallowed down an irrational surge of panic. He helped her into the blouse and buttoned it clumsily, but she looked even more vulnerable with only her lower half exposed. She ducked her head and hid her face behind her heavy fall of hair. He hunted around but couldn't seem to find her panties. Instead he turned up a dainty bra and her creased trousers. Deciding that the latter would do, he helped her into them, hunkering down to physically lift her feet, one at a time, into the trouser legs. The position brought his face level with the fine curls at her center, but her very nakedness made her seem even more defenceless and in need of his protection.
He eventually managed to get her all zipped and buttoned up, and when he looked into her face he saw that her lips were moving and the tears that had been threatening had spilled over. He gripped her arms urgently, hating the sight of her tears. He focused on her lips and was able to discern that she was saying the same thing over and over again.
You keep punishing me . . .
Bryce acknowledged that fact to himself. He did keep punishing her, but what she didn't know was that he was punishing himself as well. He hated seeing her like this, and he hated the guilt that burned away at his insides like acid with every reluctant tear that she shed. He kept telling himself that she deserved it but it was getting so damned hard to keep convincing himself of that fact. He lifted a hand to her face but she flinched away from him and he glowered, hating the reaction. He had never physically hurt her, he had always taken great care not to hurt her, and seeing her flinch away from him like he was the monster he so dreaded becoming, had the same visceral effect on him as a punch to the gut. He gingerly wrapped his arms around her and tugged her against his chest. She was as stiff as a board and refused to relax in his embrace. Eventually realizing that she was probably emotionally drained, he lifted her into his arms and rather awkwardly managed to open the door and carry her upstairs to her bedroom. Thankfully, Celeste and Kayla were nowhere in sight. He placed her onto the soft bed and knelt in front of her, trying to catch her eyes.
"If you'd just admit it," he said. She lifted her dull eyes to his, seeming to register his presence at last and frowned in confusion.
"Admit what?" She looked confused, and he gritted his teeth as he tried to maintain his temper.
"Admit that you were at the scene of my accident and that you lied about trying to reach me. I could try to forgive you and we could start rebuilding our relationship. Just be honest, Bronwyn." She sighed tiredly, defeat weighing heavily on her shoulders. She shifted her eyes again and shrugged, looking like someone who just wanted to be left alone and would do anything to achieve that end.
"If that's what you want, Bryce, then I confess to being guilty of everything that you accused me of. I stood beside that road and watched you suffer before walking away. I never tried to contact you; I preferred to struggle along with no money, no home, and rapidly deteriorating health.
"I didn't try, and fail, to reach you just after Kayla was born either, when I was so ill I could barely hold the phone, when I was terrified I would die and she would be left alone. I clung to my stubborn pride and quite selfishly never once thought about what was best for you or our daughter." She shaped the words so clearly, he had absolutely no difficulty understanding her. It was what he had wanted, what he believed to be true, a wholesale admission of guilt, but it did not sit well with him and it certainly didn't feel right. He wasn't quite sure how to proceed from here and gently pushed her down until she was lying back on the bed.
"You need to rest," he said as gently as he could, but he was an inaccurate judge of his own tone of voice at the best of times, and from the way she flinched, he suspected that his words had emerged a lot harsher than he had intended. Still she obeyed him and lay unresisting, looking utterly drained of any desire to fight him anymore. He tugged the covers up over her unmoving body and kissed her forehead tenderly before standing up. He hovered uncertainly, feeling faintly ridiculous in nothing but his black cotton boxers.
"Try to get some sleep. Don't worry about Kayla. I'll see to her dinner and get her to bed . . ." He seemed to be rambling now and Bronwyn was confused by his uncertainty. "I'll bring her up to say good night later. Things will get better now, Bron," he vowed in an awkward rush, but Bronwyn refused to acknowledge his impulsive promise. "You'll see. They'll get better."
Well, things certainly felt better when she woke up the following morning. She felt warm and cherished and soon realized that it was because she was being cradled in Bryce's arms with her back pressed to his warm chest. It was only the second time she found herself waking up beside him since her return, and after the events of the last twenty-four hours, she felt more than a little ambivalent about his presence in her bed. He had one arm wrapped around her waist with his hand cradled between her breasts, and the other arm was tucked beneath her head. One of his muscled thighs was squeezed between her own slender thighs. Against her better judgment, Bronwyn felt safe, secure, and almost cherished. She felt his warm and steady breath feathering against the vulnerable nape of her neck, and she fought back a little shiver of pleasure. She slowly became aware of the fact that they were both naked-and vaguely recalled Bryce brusquely helping her out of her clothes sometime during the night. The scorching hot length of his erection was pressing up against the small of her back. She immediately tensed.
"Relax." His voice sounded like the contented purr of a cat and had the exact opposite effect of relaxing her. "I'm not going to jump you this morning. We need to talk."
"I have nothing to say to you," she responded mutinously, safe in the knowledge that he could not hear her or see her lips.
"What did you say?" he surprised her by demanding, and she tensed even further. He turned her resisting body to face him as if she weighed no more than a feather, but she kept her gaze glued to his jaw. "I know you said something . . . I could feel the vibration in your chest!"
"I asked what you wanted to talk about," she lied, meeting his eyes. He looked unconvinced, and his eyes seethed with frustration, but he tamped it down determinedly.
"Us . . ."
"I thought we'd said all that needed saying last night," she responded. "I'm a liar and you're the victim of my vindictive and cruel nature." He chose to ignore her sarcasm.
"I want to know what you meant last night when you said that you were terrified that you would die," he probed softly, watching her face carefully. They were lying so close together that it was difficult to conceal the smallest emotion from him.
"There were complications." She shrugged casually. "It was a difficult pregnancy, worsened by the fact that I was . . . malnourished." How humiliating it was to admit that. She lowered her eyes again, embarrassed by her inability to take care of herself. "I was underweight and weak by the time I went into labor. It was a long, intense labor, and because my body had been deprived of the vitamins it needed during the pregnancy, it was ill-equipped to deal with the . . . trauma . . . of an extended labor. There was some tearing, I lost a lot of blood and went into shock. I remember them asking for the name and number of my next of kin right after Kayla was born." She felt moisture on her cheeks and was appalled to discover that she was crying silently. God, she was so sick of crying all the time, but it was so difficult to recall the fear and absolute loneliness of that moment without succumbing to emotion. "I was so scared. I just wanted to hold my baby. I wanted to be sure that she was okay. The doctors all looked so grim behind their masks; they told me that she was fine but nobody would show me." She felt a rough thumb wiping away the tears on her cheeks and shut her eyes at the gruff gentleness. She swallowed bravely before continuing. "One of the last things I remember before everything went dark was begging to see my baby, and then a doctor calling my name and swearing. I remember him swearing because he sounded so angry and so concerned that he reminded me of you. For a split second I thought it was you! And I was so happy . . ." She could feel him trembling now, as if chilled to the bone, but for some reason she couldn't seem to stop the flow of words. He had asked, he had wanted to know, and she was not going to sugar coat it for him. She cleared her throat hoarsely before continuing.